Path to Heaven
by Tasogare-Taichou
Summary: IchiRuki. When Ichigo finds out a devastating secret Rukia has been hiding, will they be able to reconcile and move foreward when the path ahead of them has been closed, or will they find a new path on their own.


**Path to Heaven**

Fandom: Bleach/ Pairing: IchiRuki/ Rating: R for language/ Spoilers: Current Arc

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. If I did, there would be a lot more IchiRuki.

Summary: Rukia has been keeping a secret, one a good deal more serious than she'd like anyone to know. But when Ichigo finds out, will they be able to move foreward, now that the paths they walk have been closed to them, or will they be able to forge a new path.

Laying on her back in the relative darkness of the closet, Rukia tucked one hand behind her head as her other arm held aloft the simple silver phone, violet eyes focused on the small screen. Blank, the way it had been for the most part of the last 2 weeks, the small display screen retaining it's dull, dark quality even in the shadow of the small enclosed area that qualified as her space in Ichigo's room. Holding it up over her head, the petite shinigami let eyes wander over the contours of the device, watching as the faint shaft of light that spilled it's way across her torso from the crack between the sliding doors hit and reflected off of the angles and planes of the machine. And still nothing. It was dead, as lifeless and silent as the bell on the little chappy charm that she'd painstakingly tied to the antennae a few months back.

Only a few months... but it seemed somehow indeterminably longer than that. The small pink plastic trinket with it's smiling face and little chiming bell had faded, bright colours paled and weathered by the beating that it took riding around in her pocket. Not to mention the innumerable amount of times it had seen it's cheerful visage meeting the pavement at a rather rapid pace as it careened out of said pocket during an altercation with a hollow. The soul pager itself took a far worse beating than the charm, which was likely why Chappy's pink face had seen it's way through 4 pagers so far, it's familiar soft -- when she remembered to turn the volume down -- beeping interrupting her life on fairly regular intervals.

But not lately. The alerts had grown silent, their monotone ringing only breaking through the everyday on random occassions. And even then, they were faint, signals wavery at best. She knew why, of course. And for once, it wasn't a case of Urahara selling her crap -- as often as that seemed to happen -- that was to blame for the lack of assignments. No, the reasoning behind the rather sudden derth of intel and communique from Soul Society rested not in the functioning of the small bit of technology, but in the much-creased and weathered bit of paper that rested beside the phone in her pocket. Fingers reached into the void of fabric, calloused tips caressing the folded piece of paper that had become such a defining thing, that had thrown everything in her life into disarray with one fell swoop, one bold stroke of brush to paper. Curling around it, teeth set against her lower lip as she felt the paper crumple underneath her grip. Crumple the way that she wished she could crumple it's effects, those far-reaching, irreversible effects that radiated outward and cast violent ripples across her world.

_I should tell him, I suppose. Otherwise he'll just keep getting pissed over the stupid phone, being more of an asshole about it. Idiot. Like it's really any of his business anyway what I do._

Which wasn't entirely true. Not the part about her business not being his -- that was something she wouldn't ever concede to -- but that it didn't concern him. In reality... it did. A lot. But any sort of mental bantering with herself over whether or not to share the contents of her letter was shoved aside the moment the damned phone actually went off. In a flurry of limbs and the sound of the door sliding open with a bang. she was out of the closet, yelling to the orange-haired substitute who was currently bent over something at the desk. Homework, likely. Which was forgotten with a scowl as he turned to nod at her, one large hand grabbing his badge where it rested in the tangled pile of his school uniform near the foot of the bed. With a simple strike of badge to chest, he was out of his body, Zangetsu's familar shape resting against his back as he shoved the window open and went sailing out. Shaking her head, she only took a moment to slip on her shoes before she too was hurtling out of the window after him.

Whether it was due to the heat of the moment, or just the fact that he'd gotten so used to her lack of powers, he didn't seem to notice that she hung back lately, content to support him with kidou -- when he wasn't screaming at her over "interfering" -- rather then use her own powers, her own zanpakutou. In a way, it was almost like the time they'd spend together before her brother and Renji had arrived to take her back to Soul Society. Him fighting; her supporting and advising. But Rukia knew better then that. Just as she knew that no amount of nostalgia or familiarity with the situation at hand would permanently stave off the ultimate question he would throw at her.

Loafer-clad feet pounding against asphalt, the beacon of his orange hair and the dark shape that represented him fixed in her field of vision, Rukia actually spared herself a moment to just _watch_ him, Zangetsu's bandaged shape tapping against his back rhythmically with every long loping stride. He'd grown up, in a lot of ways. Nearly 17 now, almost two years since that night when she'd first appeared in his room, only intending to pass through. With a smirk she couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of that statement. Pass through. Yeah. Right. All that had fallen by the wayside when the tangerine-tressed highschooler with the bad attitude had planted one rather large -- why _were_ men's feet so big anyway? -- foot squarely in the center of her posterior and shoved, sending the petite shinigami sailing across the room to land rather unceremoniously on her face, sprawled in a heap as her mind tried to work it's way around the concept of a human who could not only _see_ her, but could kick her as well. To her credit, it was probably the last kick he ever gave her. The tables had turned rather spectacularly and she had most certainly gotten even for that one offense. Not that she ever hesitated -- when he was bitching, which was often -- to kick him again and then blame it on his own stupid self because he shouldn't have ever kicked her in the first place and he would be paying for it for the rest of his life.

Holding up the pager in front of her, Rukia watched the blinking indicator on the screen as it's slow pulse continued, small arrow pointing them towards their quarry. Two hollows this time, it looked like, and this time -- somehow in defiance of Murphy's law and actually in accordance with her silent pleas -- the signal wasn't wavering, wasn't fading and flickering in and out. Shaking herself out of her momentary attack of nostalgia -- really, she should stop thinking like that, it was making her go soft -- she hollared at her companion who, in typical Ichigo fashion, was in a mood and therefore completely ignoring the fact that she was _not_ in possession of what she termed his "damned overgrown, freakishly long legs" and outstripping her in speed. Damn idiot. If he wanted to run so fucking fast, then he should just let her ride on his back like she always did and not go barreling down the street like some kid who saw the icecream truck.

"Slow the fuck down or I'll let you wander around and find it yourself dumbass."

It wasn't even as though he could search it out himself. Two years of training and being a shinigami and his skill at sensing reiatsu was still pitiful at best. Which was likely why he gave an irritated growl but still slowed his gait, strides shortening slightly to allow her to catch up. Not stopping, no that would have been the nice and considerate thing to do but she was certain the world would implode in a ball of fire and that stuff she heard about in class -- antimatter, she thought they called it -- if Kurosaki Ichigo ever even _hinted_ at doing something that could be considered "nice".

Scowling, but still at least marginally satisfied, she just nodded at him. "Park. Two of them." That was the way it usually was in situations like these. All business, her clipped and sometimes brusque manner dealing with his belligerent and downright bad attitude as she snapped at him and yelled for being foolish and he snarled back that he could handle things himself and to stay the hell out of it and quit interfering. Not what most would have called a "good" relationship, but then most people didn't really know them, and wouldn't have understood the strange dynamics of their oftentimes quirky and just plain odd friendship. In fact, they would seldom have dared call what the orange-haired highschooler and the small shinigami had a "friendship".

Especially now, as they skidded to a stop in the middle of an empty, silent and _hollow-free_ park, the soft beeping sound of her phone conspicuously absent. Pulling out the device, she fiddled with a few of the buttons, tapping out a pattern onto the screen, swearing nearly inaudibly under her breath as the damned thing refused to give her the answer she wanted, it's screen blank and silent.

With a snarled curse, fingers clenched around Zangetsu's hilt as amber-brown eyes narrowed menacingly at the smaller shinigami. Ok. He was getting _seriously_ tired of putting up with this shit. For the last 16 fucking days or so it had been like this. The damned pager going off randomly -- half the time not even accurately -- and when they finally did _get_ to wherever the useless piece of shit pointed them, there wasn't anything_ there_ for him to deal with. It had been annoying the first few times, downright infuriating the next few, but by now he had had it. And the fuck was up with Rukia, why didn't she just get the damned thing fixed anyway?

Rounding on her, he stalked over, fists clenching by his side. It wasn't really fair, using his height to intimidate her, and sure enough the glare that she shot his way promised swift retribution to his shins should he keep it up. "The hell is wrong with that damned thing?! This is the 10th fucking time in 2 weeks, I'm sick of this shit! Get the goddamned thing fixed or shut it the hell off and I'll fucking do this myself."

Bossy little bitch that she often was, Rukia didn't get it. It didn't fucking _matter_ if she did well in school, hell it didn't even matter if she _went _to the damn classes -- yeah he'd gotten used to her being there, but still it wasn't as though she was some normal kid working towards their future or something -- since she would eventually be going back to Soul Society anyway. Which didn't bother him. Really. It didn't. Nevermind that there were times where he actually could have said -- but wouldn't, cuz the little midget bitch would just take it the wrong way or some other fucked up thing like that -- that he enjoyed her company. Not the kicking. He definitely could have done without the kicking and without the yelling and screaming -- though at the moment that seemed a burgeoning likelihood.

But that was beside the point. It didn't matter.

What did matter was that while the pint-sized noisy shinigami's future might not have had jack-shit to do with whether she actually got decent grades, _his_ did. And as used to the whole getting-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-for-hollow-hunting shit that he'd gotten over the last 2 and a half years or so, that didn't make it any more likely that he'd welcome another sleepless night with _no fucking reason behind it_.

And she was acting weird. Which pissed him off even more. Whether it had something to do with whatever the hell happened to her in Hueco Mundo -- he didn't ask, she didn't tell, that sort of shit wasn't his business if she didn't want to share -- or some fucked up shit with Soul Society, she wasn't even really fighting with him anymore. Well, she always fought with him. But now she wasn't fighting _with_ him. As in, Rukia had re-delegated herself to the sidelines while _he_ fought. Which, he had to admit, was a bit nice because then he didn't have her noisy bossy orders tossed in his ear like she thought she was _so_ fucking great and had all the damned answers. Forget that Rukia actually _was_ pretty cool, at least on a purely observational level. And that she _did_ have a lot of the answers he needed, though she didn't have to fucking rub his face in them. She still didn't get to act like it, the little bitch.

Oh god, he had to start this shit again. She'd already had to deal with him whining and growling over the phone's acting up, and how he was going to finally explode over it. Now if she could only somehow manage to get her foot inside his head, maybe that would solve this. Shaking herself from her mental musings of the many ways she could disengage Ichigo's fuzzy orange head from his shoulders, she snapped back, crossing arms over her chest and tapping one loafer-clad foot against the pavement.

"It's not fucking _broken_, you dumbass and it isn't my fault the signal's weak! You think I like running around out here any more then you do when there's no damn reason for it!?"

That was the way, act normal. Fight, argue, act as though nothing had changed, as though it was merely another case of a broken phone and a Rukia who didn't want to admit that she'd broken it because then that would make him right. And he couldn't _ever _be right, not as long as she had something to do with it. And the fucker had the nerve to actually try and do that loom-over-and-use-his-height-against-her move that she hated _SOO_ much, which was perhaps the reason why her foot suddenly ceased it's irritated tapping at roughly the same time that the hard black heel of her shoe connected solidly against the bone of his lower leg.

"Quit acting like such a whiny moron and blaming me for everything that's fucking bothering you."

Ichigo clenched his teeth and wondered for what had to be the thirteen thousandth time exactly why it had to be that he didn't hit girls. Not one. Not even one short, bossy, little bitch of a Kuchiki who _somehow_ always managed to look down on him even if she was standing a good fucking foot and a half beneath him. Hell, he could have used her for a damned armrest, if he didn't value his ribs to at least a marginal level.

"Oh shut the hell up, it's not like you've been doing _anything_ for the last 2 fucking weeks. You stand around and throw kidou when I don't need it and just get in the fucking way! If you're not gonna be useful and help, then _stay the hell home_ and I'll just do this shit on my own!"

Teeth ground angrily, hands fisting and small fingers wrapping around the silver phone tight enough to make the plastic housing squeak as edges rubbed, force distributing through it. Being angry was normal. Hell, she got angry at nearly everything he did, that wasn't anything new. What she _didn't_ like, didn't want to deal with, was the fact that she couldn't argue with what he said. She _was_ useless. And all because of the letter in her pocket, the letter that still turned her stomach, that still made her feel sick every time she re-read over it's contents, the brush-strokes nearly hypnotic in their shape.

Maybe it was some part of her, some tiny and nearly insignificant hope that if she just read it again, cast eyes over the ink another time, the strokes and shapes would shift, their meaning changing and becoming something different, something harmless. Of course, that was a ridiculous idea to entertain, and it wasn't as though she actually believed that, but it at least made something of a reasoning for why she couldn't stop pulling it out whenever she was alone. Where _he_ couldn't see. Tracing fingers over the words, crumpling the parchment and then straightening it, slim fingers smoothing out the creases and wrinkles and carefully refolding it into it's neat square with the Gotei-13's crest stamped in the center. It was as an addiction, constantly and unwaveringly repeating the phrases and sounds in her head, reliving her failure, her shame. And now, with the simple sting of Ichigo's usual biting words -- they somehow managed to hurt a good deal worse right now -- everything had been bared before her, in all it's ugliness, and she couldn't turn away.

Head snapping up as the sky rumbled overhead -- oh perfect, now it was going to _storm_, just what she needed -- she bent back an arm and hurled the little device across the gap between them, the silver oblong striking the ground with a clatter, pieces snapping off and flying away as it skidded and spun across the rough surface of the pavement.

"Then KEEP IT! Fine, you want to be alone, then go be fucking alone you goddamned moron! See if I care! You obviously don't need me, you don't need _anyone_, so just take care of everything yourself then! You think you know everything, so have fun. Wouldn't want you having to put up with something _useless_."

With a final snarl, she whipped around and stalked off. Well ok, maybe "ran" was a more accurate word, but that would have implied that she was fleeing. Which she wasn't. Really.

Ichigo had to admit, he was surprised. That she would yell at him, no. But that she would yell at him like _that_, actually seeming to believe what he said and take it to heart, and then _run_? That wasn't normal. Ok, so maybe he'd been a bit harsh with that bit about her being in the way, but she _was_! And it was weird and irritating and shit. Rukia wasn't on the sidelines, she hadn't been since before he beat up half of fucking Soul Society to rescue her. Since they'd rescued Inoue, she'd been more than his mentor, more than the shinigami who tagged along to make sure i he /i didn't screw up. She was... well, for lack of a better term, his i partner /i . They were a team, they fought together. Not her watching him, not like it had been at the beginning. But now, she was acting like that again, like she'd lost her damn powers or something.

Honestly, he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd been hiding something from him. It wasn't like he could read her mind or anything -- no matter how beneficial that may have been at times -- and they had an unspoken agreement, really. He respected her space, and she gave him his. However close they had grown, however much they had shared in the 2 and a half years they had been friends, it was always the same. She kept things to herself, and he did the same. They didn't really need to bare their souls to each other, not after all this time, and it would have _been_ awkward to do so. At least, he assumed it would be. Knowing Rukia, it would likely either be the most awkward thing he had ever done, or it would be nonchalant and "normal" to the point of oddity.

Amber-brown eyes flickered to the silent phone as the first few raindrops pelted down, inner monologue remarking rather acidly that if it wasn't broken then, it most certainly was now. Oh well, couldn't just leave the damn thing there. He'd be willing to bet money that if he did leave it there -- and he had half a mind to -- he'd have to listen to her not only bitch about the phone, but bemoan the loss of the stupid chappy trinket on it, and then pester him until he bought her another one. Stepping forward with a sigh, he glanced up at the sky with a lingering glower. He hated rain. Fingers hooking themselves through the loop of cord that held that stupid pink charm onto it, his gaze was caught by something else lying nearby. A folded and much-worn piece of heavy paper, creased into an even square, the faintly tattered edges bearing testament to much opening and closing. Rukia's, obviously. Must have come out of her pocket. Scooping it up, he turned the square of parchment over in his hand quizzically.

It had seemingly made it's home in her pocket for some time, given the lint that caught in the creases, and the way it looked as though it had been crumpled and uncrumpled several times over. Turning it over again, brown eyes narrowed as they traced over the faded black ink that formed a symbol of ruthless familiarity. He'd seen it before, numerous times in fact. Soul Society. The Gotei-13, to be exact. A finger reached for a corner of the paper, pausing with a faint twinge of guilt. He had no business going through her things, especially when she'd be likely to kick his ass for it later, and _then_ kick his ass again for actually daring to think she wouldn't find out.

But then she'd been acting so strange lately. And it wasn't only one time that he'd stole a glimpse at her to find one hand stuffed deep into a pocket, fingers absently shifting slightly. He'd always just figured her hands were cold, or she was rummaging for some loose change to buy yet another dumb pink rabbit thing. But maybe... maybe he'd missed something. And if this little scrap of paper could help him figure it out so that she didn't have to be so goddamned _irritating_ to him right now, then Ichigo couldn't help but wonder if a beating might not actually be worth it in this instance.

Taking a deep breath, throat muscles constricted to swallow as he steeled his resolve and pulled open the tightly-creased slip of paper. Smoothing it out as best as he could, trying to keep the pelting raindrops from smearing any of the ink, Ichigo cast brown eyes down over it, gaze flickering over the words. And froze. Was this...some kind of sick joke? He barely noticed that his hand was shaking, fingers curling around the parchment scrap not in startlement, but in anger. And suddenly, everything made sense -- though it was rather difficult to think much on it through the haze of red that was currently obscuring his vision -- the phone, the weird way she'd been acting, everything.

_The fuck didn't she just tell me?! She could have told me, we could have done something!_

Clenching his fingers even tighter around the now-crumpled letter, he shoved it into his pocket with a snarl, hardly noticing that anger aside, he was more hurt by the fact that she'd kept something like this from him. That... she didn't trust him enough to entrust him with it. And as much as he didn't want to admit it to himself -- and he _really_ didn't want to admit it -- that hurt. A lot. After all that they'd been through together, the little bitch should have at least had the decency to tell him something this _important._

Hurt was quickly giving away to anger, which at least was something he could recognize, something he knew how to deal with. And maybe... that wasn't the best of paths to take, but "hurt" was something that didn't register on Kurosaki Ichigo's radar. Not because it was something he didn't feel, but rather because at the first sign that he _might_ feel it, he normally ran as fast as he could from it. "Hurt" was something bad, something to be avoided at all costs, even if that cost was the closeness that one could acheive with another. Closeness meant _feelings_ and feelings meant _caring_ and caring... well caring meant _needing_ someone. And the last time that he'd ever needed someone, _really_ needed them... well, he knew how that had ended.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the moisture that clung to the tips of spiky orange hair -- a futile effort, really, considering the way the stuff was plummeting down to earth with all the subtlety of a runaway bus -- he headed off at a run. Damn little midget bitch of a shinigami. He was _going_ to find her, and she was _going_ to explain this to him. Whether she liked it or not. And then... well, he really didn't know what "and then" would end up being, once he found her. Or... if the words staring bleakly up in ink were true.

Rukia honestly didn't know where she was going. Hell, she didn't know why she'd _ran_ in the first place, except for the fact that he'd been right. And she hated it when he was right. She was useless, nothing but an interference. And that was something she didn't know how to deal with. Normally, she would have just kicked him in the shins, loudly told him to shut his ugly mouth and refused to talk to him for the rest of the evening. And probably hit him too. But she couldn't bring herself to do that right now. Maybe it was because of the letter -- damned thing, it had even fallen out of her pocket somewhere along the way -- or maybe it was just... that she didn't know what to do, where to go. Things weren't the same, they couldn't stay the way they'd been. Not once he found out the truth.

And the rain just made everything worse. She hated the rain. It had been raining that day that Renji had put on a false smile and pushed her away towards the Kuchiki clan, rather then standing and telling her what they both wanted to hear. The rain had poured from the sky that night when she, eyes blank and haunted by memories and guilt, had brought the lifeless body of her vicecaptain to his home, drops of moisture mingling with the teardrops and blood that rolled softly down her pale cheeks.

Even here, in the Living World, it seemed as though the rain followed her, it's even patter a mocking refrain that echoed throughout her mind. Rain on the night she'd given her powers to Ichigo when, alone and lost in her weakened state she had simply sat in a silent near-stupor by his unconscious form until an umbrella over her head and a kind word from a then-stranger had offered her aid. Torrents of water pounding the ground when he fought Grand Fisher, teeth gritted and blood dripping into the moist soil at his feet, desperation and hatred in his eyes. Drops splashing onto her shoulders as she sat there beside his fallen body, cradling orange head in her lap and watching the raindrops sliding off of her nose and landing on his face, unwilling to even consider that some of them might have been teardrops.

It had rained again, when she was brought back to Soul Society. The skies had opened wide and dumped their bounty onto Seireitei and Rukongai as she'd watched out of the narrow-barred window of her cell. She'd wondered if it had rained in Karakura, if Ichigo's blood splashed onto the pavement was now mingling with the cool clear trails and puddles of water that swirled darkly against the velvet midnight of the evening sky. There had been no rain at her execution. At least, not the kind of rain that fell where others could see. And perhaps in a way, that swath of brilliant sky that had painted the heavens had been a herald for events to come, events that did not deserve a place beside the drenched and rain-sodden memories on her mental shelves.

There had been other rainy days since then, other nights when she'd crawl out of bed and tiptoe from Karin and Yuzu's room to the small half-circle window at the end of the hallway, curling herself into the wide sill with arms linked around her knees to just watch it. Those were always the lonely nights, the nights when the memories got to be too much, when the nightmares wouldn't subside and abate. Curled into her window like a child seeking comfort, violet eyes cast upwards to watch as the heavy droplets slid down the windowpanes in spidery trails.

The day she'd felt the first stirrings of unrest, the uneasiness that came from knowing and realizing that something had shifted, altered, the clouds had hung heavy in the sky. But the rain had held back, at least until the late afternoon, when the letter had come. Delivered by Hell Butterfly, carrying with it the heavy and lingering sense of dread. The storms that day had been some of the worst. She hadn't wanted to believe the words painted in still-wet ink on the parchment, the resounding and echoing finality they had pronounced. That was the first day she'd sought out the rain, standing in the middle of an empty field, overlooking a river so like the one she'd watched in her childhood. And just let the rain take her, silken droplets soaking hair and skin and clothing, running down her form in rivulets that dripped from fingertips, skirt, hair, eyes staring blankly out ahead, full of so much but seeming to see so little.

Stumbling now as she ran, barely heeding the slashing clutches of tree limbs as they groped for her, Rukia didn't really even know where she was going, what direction she was heading in. Surroundings, bearings, familiar landmarks, they all blurred together into a maelstrom of windswept and rain-soaked colour, dimmed and dulled by the gray reflection of the sky and the bleakness of the mood that seemed to ooze out from her very pores and permeate the world around her.

With a startled yelp, arms wind-milled as foot caught, heel slipping in a depression in the ground and off-balancing her. Rukia's eyes widened as hands outstretched to try and catch herself, to break her fall, but it was too late. She hit the ground hard, biting back a little cry of pain as shoulder impacted earth with bruising force, tumbling her over as her hands scrabbled for purchase against the incline of the hill. Fingers dug in, trying to stop her momentum, but the water-logged earth gave way, sending her tumbling further in a shower of dirt to land at the bottom of the hill in a heap, head cracking painfully against the edge of the sidewalk.

It took a moment for her vision to clear, for conscious thought to make it's way past the throbbing pain from the side of her head and the ache of countless bruises and scrapes. Pushing dirt-smeared hands against the ground, Rukia shakily lurched to her feet, staggering slightly. Bloody, battered, disoriented, she shook her head slightly to clear the cobwebs, dark eyes picking out her surroundings. Her gaze was greeted by row upon row of smooth, black marble pillars, each one bearing rows of etched characters along them. A cemetary. Sighing, the petite shinigami shook her head at the irony of the world. She knew where she was now.

One step, another. Then another, and she stopped in her tracks in front of one stone, rain pelting down heavy, mingling with the dirt and the blood from scraped knees and elbows and cut lip. Peering through the moisture clinging to long eyelashes, fringing her eyes in misty dewdrops, she read the writing on the stone in front of her.

Kurosaki Masaki.

Ironic, really. How this wretched chain of events would bring her here, to the grave of a woman she'd never met, but to whom Rukia felt she owed so much. She'd never really asked Ichigo about his mother, it didn't take a degree in nuclear physics -- whatever that was, she'd never quite been able to figure it out but it apparently meant you were pretty sharp -- to know that said subject was likely to be one of the touchiest subjects you could broach with the orange-haired teen. That being said, she'd simply kept eyes and ears open, and over the last 2 years, she'd been able to paint what she was relatively certain was an at least fair assumption of the woman who lay in the grave at her feet.

"You'd be proud of him. Your son."

It was silly, really. Talking to a pillar of rock in the pouring rain. Especially since she knew perfectly well that everything which had once made up Kurosaki Masaki was gone. Her spirit resting -- hopefully happily -- in Soul Society. Whether Ichigo knew that... she couldn't say. Rukia knew Grand Fisher had been defeated, she'd kept herself abreast of the bulletins that circulated in Seireitei and though the details were sketchy and there didn't seem to be anyone who _really knew what happened_, the outcome was the same. The hollow vanquished, the souls that he had eaten released and freed on to their afterlife. But in spite of the fact that she certainly looked a sight, dirt-stained and soaked, standing in the rain and talking to a headstone, there was a sort of catharsis to her actions. Almost as though the silent grave was the only unbiased listener in the world right now.

"He's strong... and he has a good heart. Even though he's a stubborn, arrogant prick most of the time. And he's entirely too confident and much too reckless, and..." She swallowed, blinking through the tears -- no, they were _raindrops_, dammit -- and bit back a wry chuckle. "And he's rude and loud and doesn't know when to give up, and won't listen to anything even if it nearly gets him _killed_, and... and he doesn't even know how much I love him..."

_Love_... She supposed _that_ really was the reason for all of this. Well, love and the rules it went against, if she wanted to get technical. Not that she really did, but still. For arguement's sake. Love... wasn't something a shinigami like herself was supposed to have. Especially not when that love was found -- with a sickening lurch of her stomach at the realization -- to be firmly locked and directed at a human boy. Rukia could honestly say that she'd tried to push it aside, tried to write the feelings off as a silly girlish infatuation with the young man who looked so much like Kaien, the one who had come for her and saved her life. Just hero-worship, on some broader scale that she was putting too much stock into.

And at first... that had worked. She'd just ignored it, pretended it didn't exist. And expected it to go away, to fade into nothingness the way all fleeting dreams and whims eventually do. Only... it hadn't. Rather, like a festering wound it had spread, grown, deepened. And the harder she'd tried to ignore it, the further within her mind and heart she'd buried it, the more it rose to the surface in defiance of her desperate wishes. It was wrong, forbidden, it couldn't be. But... she wanted it. Ached for it, to a near-painful level of need, a need that frightened her. And so she'd pushed it away again, beating it back into submission. Over and over and over until finally it was second nature to feel the pain, the knawing sense of incompleteness that lagged along behind her. But it didn't show. No one knew. And though she had known she shouldn't stay, shouldn't keep walking down this path, Rukia had found that neither could she force herself from it. From the path that trailed behind him, always following his footsteps, no matter where they led.

It hadn't seemed that much of a breach of rules. She was still assigned to Karakura for patrols, still hunting hollows in the small town, so it wasn't as though she lacked reason to be there. And since she was there, what harm was there in simply continuing the farce of a life she'd created? Going to school... staying with Karin and Yuzu at night... walking home with Ichigo, the two of themsomehow managing to say nothing and yet everything without a single word. It wasn't until Renji had mentioned her distracted state in passing that she'd realized her mistake.

The alerts had been the first thing she noticed. Or rather, the lack of alerts. Initially it had been just one or two instances; Hollows missed, appearing with an eerie stillness that had sent them scrambling to deal with the problem. And then there were the alerts that just vanished. The Hollows that seemed to dematerialize as though they'd never been there. It was when she was ready to pull her hair out, after numerous bouts of yelling at Urahara over his cheap crap, as she was poised to just go _back_ to Soul Society and find out what was wrong with the infernal thing that the letter had arrived.

And then it all made sense.

Rukia'd had to re-read the piece of paper over a few times before the meaning had sunk in. Stared at the stark black characters without blinking for so long that vision had blurred and they'd all ran together. She'd blinked her eyes and cleared them and kept on staring as though hoping that she'd read it wrong, that things weren't as the letter said. But the words had betrayed her yet again in their mocking regularity, as though deliberately refusing to realign and give her better news. And as their meaning had sunk in, winding tendrils deep into her mind with a low rattling death-toll, she'd hardly noticed that slim fingers had crumpled the paper in her hand, trembling digits clenching tighter and tighter as though she could somehow suffocate and silence the accusing words that stared up at her and echoed through her mind.

Exiled. Banished. On pain of death and the sealing of her zanpakutou.

Those words had seemed empty, hollow, like the facade of a crumbling edifice, suddenly drained of all it's strength. And yet, it was those words which were now going to define her very existence. At first, she hadn't wanted to believe them. It was back to Soul Society, on her way to try and see Soutaichou, but before she'd even been able to open the gate, Sode no Shirayuki's blade silent in front of her to key open the door, a hand on her shoulder had stopped her. Renji, concern and... a hint of something else showing through the anger and frustration that always seemed so prevalent in his gaze.

It was through Renji that she'd finally been able to discover the truth. How she'd drifted from her mission, grown too complacent, too used to the human world she had come to value. The way her arguements against reassignment -- though she'd always cited the simple fact of her familiarity with the area as the reasons why she should be kept at her post -- had fraught unrest through the Gotei-13 and caused all of her actions to be thrown into question and placed under a microscopic view. And above all that, there was the plain and unquestionable fact that through her own choices she chose to associate with exiles, humans...even Vaizard.

And that was the cornerstone of the arguement, according to Renji. The closeness that she shared -- cherished, protected, guarded even -- with her own substitute shinigami. The substitute who wasn't really even a shinigami in the first place. That closeness, that "relationship" as they called it, was dangerous. Which in and of itself was one thing that Rukia wasn't surprised to hear. She knew the way they thought of things, that so many didn't understand the often strange and sometimes downright odd friendship -- well, that _was_ a type of relationship, right? -- that she shared with the orange-haired teen. But she'd never once thought that it had become such a telling point for her own future. Which was precisely why she'd always shrugged off insinuations by Renji or her brother, or anyone else when they alluded to it. When they suggested in a sideways manner that perhaps she should distance herself from him. It had just... never seemed to be such a big thing. After all, it wasn't as though they were romantically involved. There were no rules being broken. Or so she'd thought.

Rukia wasn't really even sure anymore _what_ she thought. Or what was real, what could be trusted. She trusted Ichigo. And right now... she wasn't sure what else. Even her brother, despite the fact that it was him she had to thank for the fact that she'd simply been forgotten. Rather then hunted down, blade sealed and powers taken the way that exiles were supposed to be dealt with. A deal, made as a last kindness perhaps. An agreement of mutual exclusion. "Don't ask, don't tell". Simple enough to understand in spite of the inelegance that Renji's coarse manner leant it. As long as she laid low, allowed herself to fade into the background, there would be no pursuit. No punishment. The loss of self, of all defining things, would be atonement enough.

But even that would be less painful then the reality which had come crashing down on her head in sudden stunned realization. They _knew_. They had to know, otherwise... they would have simply ordered her transfer, and then punished her accordingly when she had -- and she couldn't help but grudgingly acknowledge that yes, she would have -- argued against it, perhaps even openly defied it. For him. And still the irony of the situation was that he didn't know. She had, in a word, sacrificed everything. Everything that made her who she was, everything she knew and depended on.

For _him_. For the faintest, ethereal ghost of a chance at a life spent at his side. But she'd forgotten one thing. As a shinigami, it was easy for her to stay, to fight beside him following behind his footsteps and always watching him from behind. But without that glue, that commonality that had cemented them together in the first place... what was left for her? A life as a human... couldn't be lived in someone's closet, mooching off of their family. And what of _her_ future? Where would she go now, when there was nothing left to fall back on, nothing understood and known that she could fall back on.

Damn that stupid shinigami midget. Ichigo swore luridly as the lightning crashed overhead, cursing not only the object of his pursuit, but whatever had possessed her to think that running off into the storm was anything remotely close to a "good idea". And it didn't help at all that Karakura, for all it was a town and not a city, was rather a big town. And big meant lots of streets, lots of buildings, lots of _places_ where one shinigami -- who apparently didn't want to be found -- could go.

With another loud curse, the tall shinigami raked fingers through orange hair, clenching around wet strands in aggravation. Not that pulling his hair out would really _solve_ anything, but maybe it would just help to release even a teensy bit of that pent up irritation that had been festering for god knows how long. And maybe it would also help to jar something in his brain -- which Rukia tended to snidely insinuate was less-than-present -- and help him figure out _how to find her_.

Whether the hair-pulling, the cursing, or just plain common sense worked, the result was still the same. Which was a metaphorical lightbulb turning on over his head and the immediate skid of feet against wet asphalt as Ichigo came to an abrupt stop. Reiraku. Duh. He had to admit, he felt pretty dumb to have gone running around in the rain like a fuckwhit when he could have just simply _used his damn powers_ to trace the faint reiatsu of the shinigami he was searching for. Taking a deep breath, he let amber-brown eyes drift closed, feeling the press of his own reiatsu, spiraling out in a maelstrom -- not that it was ever really in control in the first place -- and then the faint, echoing gust of "wind" coupled with a quiet rustle as the myriad of long sinuous streamers snapped into view around him. Slitting sepia gaze open, his fist closed around the slip of brilliant crimson wavering faintly among the sea of seamless white.

"Gotcha."

With a light tug on the reiraku, he was off and following, footsteps once again pounding against the pavement. It was easier now, the closer he got, with the initially-faint taste-scent of her reiatsu growing steadily stronger. So maybe he sucked at actually sensing it enough to track someone by, but that had never applied to Rukia. At least... not in some senses. Like the way he could always tell when she was nearby, like a nearly-silent voice in the back of his mind, a soft humming vibration that served little purpose in and of itself outside of lending a hint of security.

Panting, ignoring the stinging bite of the cold raindrops -- thank god it was summer, at least the air was warm -- he absently noticed with some mild interest that the sun -- how the hell could he see it past the clouds anyway -- was caressing the horizon, faint shafts of orange breaking ever so often from the dark shadowy curtain of bleak storm that concealed them. Damn, had he really been running around that long? As legs took him almost automatically up the hill, around the bend, Ichigo could feel himself slow to a stop. He knew where this was. _He_ knew, and he was sure that Rukia did also, but...

_Why the hell would she come here?_

Stopping, he reached up to scratch the back of his head, frowning slightly as he picked his way through the numerous marble pillars. And sure enough, she was there. Standing as still as the statuesque landscape, rain dripping off the ends of her hair, soaking her clothes. Dirty, battered, looking as though she'd been through hell. Ichigo felt a sudden and inexplicable pang of... something at the look on her face as she stared blankly at his mother's headstone. He'd never seen Rukia look so... diminished. So fragile and somehow broken in a way that he didn't think he knew how to fix. And yet, the first thing in his mind, strangely enough, was a burning desire -- no, a _need_ -- to fix it. To wipe that empty and vacant stare, that forboding sense of despair from her face. But... he didn't know where that feeling came from. Hell, he didn't know _what_ that feeling came from.

Sandaled feet made virtually no sound against waterlogged grass as he stopped a few feet behind her, suddenly in the grip of a keen awareness of the fact that he had _no idea_ what to say to her. Communicating with Rukia was typically dealt with in one of two ways. Either they yelled at each other and swapped insults and barbs, somehow managing to communicate their respective points in an eerily efficient way -- if one considered the methodology of it -- or they simply didn't say _anything_. And yet again, managed to communicate worlds of information with simple glances and looks. But this... this just didn't feel like a time where either of those methods was going to work. The yelling had been what had made her run off in the first place -- even though it was NOT his fault, and no one could convince him otherwise -- and staying silent... just didn't seem right. Something needed to be said, the question was _what_.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything. Maybe -- to his grudging distaste -- even something _nice_. Comforting. But all he could seem to manage was her name, soft and monotone, soothing undertones reminiscent of how one would speak to a frightened animal. Ichigo paused, syllables rolling easily off of his tongue -- they should, as much as he yelled at her and _for _her when she was doing something that was pissing him off in one way or another -- and just waited. Whether she would yell at him again, pretend like nothing happened, or -- god forbid -- actually do something like _crying_... was anyone's guess.

"Rukia..."

It was the voice that broke her from her quiet reverie, harsh yet somehow softened tones slicing through the thickness of the silence that lingered somehow in spite of the pounding splashes of a hundred droplets of moisture pouring from the heavens. Blinking raindrops from frosted eyelashes, she slowly turned to glance over her shoulder at him, wet hair stringy around pale face smudged with dirt and bruises where her head had come into startlingly painful contact with the ground. It was him, though she wasnt at all surprised about that. What she _was_ surprised about was the expression on his face. Almost... worried.

Ichigo swallowed hard at the look on her face, the shaft of blankness that shone through her eyes. Now, with the rain slicking her clothing to her body, with all of her bravado and strength and toughness swept away by circumstance, it was easy to see how very small she seemed. How thin, how worn and ragged around the edges she was. And seeing that, the orange-haired teen found himself mentally kicking himself for having somehow overlooked it. Fighting that back, and shoving a hand in his pocket, he pulled out the battered letter. Brown eyes locked onto hers with a stare that could have cut glass as he waggled the small bit of parchment slightly, Soul Society's insignia beginning to run as droplets of rain struck faded ink.

"Why didn't you tell me?

Violet eyes flickered to the paper for a moment, as though he were holding something as insignificant as an old napkin before she turned back away from him. "You didn't need to know."

Right now, defenses down, floudering, it was the only safety mechanism she knew. Cold, empty, emotionless. Hold everything in, be the shinigami and not the woman. Calculating, collected, stoic. Not to cry, not to worry, not to _feel_. He'd get angry, not that she wasn't expecting that anyway, but at least then perhaps she could avoid having to face any of his questions. Questions invariably led to answers, answers that she wasn't wanting to offer up.

He hadn't needed to know, she hadn't _wanted_ him to know, because if he knew, then he'd be his usual bullheaded self and try to _fix_ it. As if it were something that could be fixed. With a sigh, she dug the toe of one muddy shoe into the sodden ground, barely noticing as the rain began to pick up, cold drops sheeting down in grey curtains around them both, fat droplets sliding their way down to the ends of her hair to splash onto the ground around her.

Teeth gritted, fist curling around the paper as he surged forward, other hand reaching out to catch her upper arm with a bruising grip. Ok, so he'd tried the "nice" thing. Or... as close to nice as he really knew how to be. And had it worked? No. Of course it hadn't. Thus, he was left with his normal option, which he put into use as he yanked her arm, spinning her around to face his angry glare. "The fuck do you mean I 'didn't need to know'? Aren't we partners?"

Clenching his fist by his side, he gripped her shoulders tightly, shaking her, every word punctuated by a tighter clenching of his fingers around her upper arms. "_Aren't we __**friends**_"

Releasing her, he staggered back slightly, shaking his head to clear the rainwater from his eyes. God, he fucking hated rain. And it was just making everything worse. Well, honestly he wasn't sure if this sort of thing could _get_ worse. But if it somehow managed to go against the very fabric of probability and reality and _actually do it_, then _that_ would just be made worse even further by the rain.

Rukia could feel the line of tension snap through her neck as he shook her, and even though normally she would have not only buried his face in the ground for even so much as daring to _think_ about manhandling her that way, something... something just didn't work right. It was like everything was surreal, dreamlike. None of this was real, none of it was happening. As though she were watching, merely a spectator on the sidelines, watching her own body as her head snapped back and forth like a limp ragdoll as he shook her. When his grip abruptly ceased, she took a stumbling step backwards, eyes downcast. It took a moment before she said anything, in a small tired voice.

"Yeah...we're friends."

Friends. The word meant so much, carried such a strong connotation with it, and yet... it was inadequate -- at least in her mind's eye -- and so far removed from anything she wanted to supplant it with that something within her twisted every time she was forced to answer such a question with the required "yes, of course we're friends.", crushing that part of herself that wanted to cry out, to scream and beg and shake him and call that no, they weren't friends, at least not to her, because just "friends" was never enough, could never BE enough to fill that knawing emptiness that caved open within her every time she caught herself staring at the back of his head in class and realizing that she could never give into it.

"Then WHY?! Why the fuck would you hide something like this from me? And for that matter, why the fuck would they exile you in the first place?!"

None of this made sense, not one bit. She was exiled, she'd hidden it from him, and... for what? Didn't she trust him? Plowing a hand through drenched hair, he leveled an accusing stare at her. It wasn't fair, wasn't right. They were friends, nakama. They'd been through so much together, they and their friends, but even moreso the two of them. Hell, he was _alive_ right now because of her, _she_ was alive because of him -- and the others, sure, but he'd been the one who'd wanted to save her so badly -- and they'd grown closer than he'd ever really thought he could get to someone. Not that he was about to admit that to her or anything stupid like that. But... it was true. And he'd have thought that at least the sheer amount of shit they'd been through together would have fostered some sense of loyalty or... something.

"Because you'd just blame yourself over me getting exiled for choosing _you_!"

The words broke from her almost unbidden, snarled out in a manner that somehow lost all of it's venom as she raised her head in a stubbornly defiant gesture that faded as she registered not only the rather stunned look on his face, but the words themselves, realizing what she'd yelled at him.

Ichigo didn't think he'd heard that right. In fact, he was _sure_ he hadn't heard that right. Exiled for choosing him? Choosing him for what? For her substitute? That couldn't be it; that matter had long since been dealt with, it was water under the bridge. So... what did it mean, then. Scratching his head bemusedly, he raised an eyebrow at the black-haired girl. "Choosing me? The hell does that mean?"

He wasn't likely to get an answer. At least... not one that made much sense, not from Rukia of all people. But... it didn't hurt anything to ask. Especially since her fists and feet were well outside of range of his person. But for some reason... he wanted one. Wanted to know what the hell that cryptic statement meant. Whether it was something he'd done -- as, despite the fact that he hated to admit it, it wouldn't have been the first time she'd gotten in trouble bailing him out of stupid shit -- or just... the fact that they were friends, or... well whatever the hell it was, if it had to do with him, then he had a right to know. Right?

Thinking fast -- or as fast as her rain-muddled brain really could, she crossed arms over her chest and tried to recover that slightly smug, supieror look she so often wore when he was around, the one that said that no matter how much taller than her he was, that she was still in control, still on top so to speak. "You. You, your world, the people here. That I didn't want to leave it. Don't be stupid, you're reading into things."

Every word a double-edged sword, cutting and rebounding only to cut again, the way only the lies you tell yourself hurt. But she had to, had to keep it in, had to _keep him from finding out_. Turning away from him again, she started walking -- limping, really -- through the sodden grass and mud. "Let's just go back."

His hand caught her arm again as she turned, pulling her back to face him, grip still firm but lacking some of the anger. "Rukia... that isn't it. Don't lie to me. If that's all it was, they why did you say "because you chose _me_"? Why not "because you chose this life?" You said you chose me. I don't understand. What did you choose me for?"

For some unknown reason -- unknown because this seemed dangerously close to the realm of "feelings" and those were something that he most asuredly did NOT want to really deal with -- Ichigo couldn't shake the feeling that this was an answer he needed, an answer he _had_ to have. One that he couldn't just let slide and wonder about and file it away into that enormous file cabinet in his head that held things labeled "Rukia's weirdness" and the like. And for some reason -- another unknown, or maybe the same -- the elusive answer was making him nervous.

"Tell me..."

The "please" rested heavy and unspoken at the end, hanging thickly in the silence of the raindrops impacting the ground over and over again, the closest he'd ever come to a polite request as his hand slid up to rest on her shoulder, the other one coming up to mirror it's partner as he tried to see her face.

She couldn't do it. Couldnt lie to him, couldn't make something up or push it aside and just ignore it the way she'd done for so long.Not when he was asking her like that, and driving right to the heart of things -- god, he was even almost being _kind_, a very un-Ichigo-like thing in and of itself. Not because he wasn't a kind person -- she knew better then that, had seen plenty of evidence of the size of his heart -- but because that kindness was so rarely directed at her. And even when it was, it was always a grudging sort of kindness, as though the very act of relaxing the sarcasm and the snark was such a difficult trial for him.

Biting her lip, she hung her head, gaze downcast for a moment before she swallowed hard and raised her head to look at him with hazy violet eyes. "You should know..."

Really... that might not have been fair. After all, Ichigo wasn't known for being the most perceptive, especially not when it came to matters like these, but maybe...maybe she owed it to him to at least tell him. Before she vanished, disappearing out of his life and into the shadows forever, living out her exile in isolation, the way so many others had.

Watching her eyes, lashes frosted with mist from the rain, full of so many emotions he wasn't used to seeing on Rukia's normally stoic countenance, the only thing Ichigo could think of was... well ok, he couldn't really think of anything, because something about the expression in those deep purple depths was too much, too close, too similar to so many hidden, furtive thoughts and fantasies, to so many little flickers of possibility that had arisen in his mind, always to be crushed downward by the rest of his mind declaring them as pointless, ridiculous, futile.

But he wasn't thinking about himself, about how _he_ felt -- or _didn't_ feel, as his mind persisted in stubborn declaration -- he was thinking about her and whatever the bloody hell it was she was feeling, _that she wouldn't tell him_. With a low growl, he gritted his teeth and tried once again to suppress the urge to just shake the damned answer out of her -- he got that urge a lot, but it never seemed to get weaker -- and instead settled on a more diplomatic approach. Which was to say, he started yelling again.

"NO RUKIA, I DON'T FUCKING KNOW BECAUSE YOU WON'T FUCKING TELL ME!"

At least the yelling seemed to be doing _some_ good. Because she jerked back with an answering snarl -- though whether it was due to the simplicity of that familiar reaction or because he'd actually managed to hit a nerve was anyone's guess -- and sent her left foot on a collision course with his shin, small hands fisting on either side of her as her temper snapped and lit, fuse simmering into deadly smoldering anger.

"THEY EXILED ME BECAUSE I WOULDN'T LEAVE!! THERE, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? _ARE YOU FUCKING HAPPY_? I wouldn't leave, wouldn't give this up, wouldn't turn my back on this life, on _you_, and they _knew_, they knew I wouldn't and they knew why I wouldn't. As much as I tried to_ keep_ them from knowing, keep them from ever finding out, they _KNEW_. And now what the hell do I have left?"

She took a step forward as his eyes widened, poking one finger against his chest, the motion punctuating every word as he backed up under her glare, rendered uncharacteristically speechless -- even if only for a moment. With an angry sputter, it took him only a moment to regain some of his composure before he pushed back, brown eyes flashing as he stared her down again. That wasn't what he'd asked, and she damned well knew it.

"That wasn't what I fucking asked, Rukia! Quit dodging the damn question and just _answer me_! What did you mean when you said you chose me? _What the hell am I to you_?"

Watching the way her eyes widened fractionally, the way the emotions rushed across them, he really didn't need for her to say anything for him to know. He had his answer, but that wasn't good enough. He wanted her to say it. Stubborn and thick-headed Ichigo may have been at some times -- ok, so at a lot of times -- but he knew Rukia. Knew her better than most people, probably better than she realized. And because of that, he knew she cared. Knew she cared a lot. Hell, he'd even go so far as to say he knew, recognized on some basic level, that said caring ran a hell of a lot deeper than did the care she held for other people. He wasn't stupid, after all. It hadn't really been that _hard_ to realize that she stayed for a reason.

No, the hard part had been two-fold. That is to say, it had been just as hard to come to terms with the fact that someone actually cared _that much_ about HIM as it had been to realize -- when he was truthful with himself, which was to say hardly ever -- that he cared for her, just as much. But neither of them had ever really approached the issue, never taken those steps, never admitted, never spoke up. It was just... there. Just a part of their convoluted and twisted relationship, something that rested beneath but was never brought to the surface.

Which was the whole reason why he'd always denied it when someone tried to allude to feelings on either side of things. It was easier that way. Safer. If you didn't acknowledge them, didn't give them life, than they weren't a threat. But... if that was the case, and he was supposed to be ignoring them, then why were his hands suddenly tangled in the hair at the back of her head? Or for that matter, why was he finding himself suddenly tilting her face up, crashing lips into hers in a heated, passionate kiss?

Oh well, it didn't really matter right now, did it? With a low growl, he slid one hand down her back to wrap around her waist, pulling her against him, hardly aware of the fact that apart from the initial stiffening of her frame, she wasn't fighting, wasn't arguing. Pulling away slightly, he nuzzled -- god, what was wrong with him, that was all sappy wasn't it? -- his face against the wet black hair at the side of her head, growling in her ear.

"Is _this_ it? Is it because of this? Is it because you know that _we_ _both want it_, even if we've never said anything? Is _that_ what you meant when you said you chose me?"

Rukia would have pulled back, she would have pushed him away and turned from him and ran, ran as far away as she could. But that wasn't taking into account the way her body had frozen, feet betraying her as rather then turning from him they had stepped forward and into his arms, hands stilling against his chest where she'd raise them to push, to widen the distance between them, his proximity causing nothing but turmoil. And her plan hadn't counted on the way his lips would feel against hers, the way his hands cradling her head would seem so right, so perfect, so... _real_.

His words struck a chord, and as much as she wanted to deny it, to deny what he said, what it meant, the only thing she could concentrate on at the moment was the way every part of her was cold, numb, every part excepting where he touched her, where his arms wrapped around her, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. Her world had crumbled, the foundations she had long since built it on falling around her like so much clay amidst the rain, great chunks sliding down into the puddle of muddy water at her feet, but that one part, that layer of thick and heavy brick that she'd toiled over ever since she met him, sliding chinks of powerful stone into the empty gaping holes that had never bothered her before, that part had stayed up. The part that she'd built using him. Using what they'd shared, what they'd been through.

And it was weak, _so weak_ and so shameful the way she felt her lower lip suddenly start to tremble, the way the urge to simply cling to him and cry, to sob over what she'd lost was swiftly growing larger, harder to push aside the way she'd been doing for so long. Yes, she'd chosen him. And it was a choice she didn't regret making, not when it really came down to it. But that didn't mean it wasn't a painful choice, that the consequences and far-reaching ripples it caused didn't strike painfully against the years of life she was throwing away, the faces she'd likely never see again, the existence she'd defined herself by having been ripped away and leaving her exposed.

Ichigo froze, eyes widening as he felt her fingers curl into his shirt and her shoulders start to shake as she pressed her face against his shoulder, sobbing. This... wasn't something he knew how to deal with. Rukia didn't cry, he'd only seen it happen once or twice, and it had _never_ been when he was in a position where he was -- he assumed -- supposed to _fix_ it. Swallowing and resisting the urge to do what came naturally to men when women cried -- that is, to panic and say or do something that would end up getting him yelled at or beaten -- he tried to remember what he was _supposed_ to do in this sort of situation. Awkwardly at first, then with a bit less hesitation as he got over the initial shock of having to figure out how to comfort someone, his arms simply tightened around her, his face nuzzling against soaked black hair as he tucked her head under his chin, one hand absently rubbing her back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. It worked on his sisters when they were younger and would have nightmares, or just those days that were harder to get through then others. When they'd all just hold each other and offer what comfort they could.

Surprising wasn't really the word for the feeling she got at the easy -- well, relatively easy -- way his arms simply tightened around her and he just... held her. Not asking questions, not teasing her or giving her grief over the fact that her usual strong demeanor had been reduced thus. Maybe -- and it was a big maybe, given the fact that it was Mr. Clueless who was involved -- he had somehow caught onto the fact that no matter how strong she was, no matter how many hollows she could face down, how many fights she could win, the knowledge that in making her choice, she'd lost the people who'd been family to her, who'd given her something to protect in life was a crippling blow that would have to heal on it's own.

Did Ichigo realize that? Honestly... no. Well, at least not in the same way. He didn't think about Renji, or Byakuya, or even Soul Society. He just thought about her. And about himself. About how many things in this world he would miss, would mourn, were they taken from him, forbidden him. It didn't matter that he wouldn't have let such a thing happen, or that if it had, he would have railed against it and kicked the ass of anyone who tried to get in his way. The sentiment was the same. Murmering something into her ear -- he wasn't really sure what he was saying, just that it was supposed to make her feel better -- he tightened his embrace, one hand sliding up into her hair to hold her head against his chest in the pouring rain.

"It's ok... I'm here..." That might not have offered any real comfort, but at least it was the truth. He _was_ there, he would always _be_ there, and he didn't need words or actions or gestures on her part -- or really his, either -- to know that. It wasn't something to be studied and picked apart and delineated. It just _was_. Things... would never be the same, he didn't need much of a brain to figure that out, and he knew she knew it just as well. But... even if things weren't going to be the same, there were some things that wouldn't change. Like the way he wanted to hold her like this forever, chasing away anything that dared to ever reduce her to this level, or the way that he knew she could fight him back tooth and nail and give as good as she got -- which she did, frequently -- with those violet eyes snapping with anger, or the way he secretly loved it when she stared him down and somehow still managed to look down on him despite her diminutive stature.

And even so, did they really _need_ for things to always stay the same? He didn't really know, and he'd wager that she didn't either. And maybe it was time for them to accept that, to come to terms with the fact that like it or not, their lives were going to have to change. Hell, it might even be time for them to finally admit that there was so much _more_ to their relationship than either of them had wanted to admit for so long. Or maybe... that was just the fact that he really wanted to kiss her again. It wasn't important, regardless. The only thing right now that mattered, at all, was that he was here, and she was here. That they were _together_, and that of all the things that time and chance could change, that was the one single thing that nothing could touch. And for now... that could be enough.

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Author's Notes: This one actually took me a lot of trouble just to get it written, and I'm still not sure I'm entirely happy with the ending. I wanted to make Rukia more emotional than we usually see her, simply to go with the sheer magnitude of what's happened. This is a big deal, and while yes she has Ichigo to help her through it, the fact that she's essentially turned her back on everything else in her life, on Renji and her brother and Soul Society as a whole is a very difficult burden to bear and even someone as strong and grounded as Rukia is would have a tough time dealing with it. And yes, I know there isn't a happy, fluffy, love-love ending, but that sort of ending -- as much as I love them -- just doesn't really work for a fic like this. Yes, they are together, but it's going to be a rough road ahead of them, and things are going to be difficult and complicated and it won't ever be a simple "happy ever after", so I tried not to write it as such.


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